In the Empty Classroom Near the Library
by saint mungo and the vampires
Summary: Deathly Hallows spoilers.  Even nasty old bats like Snape think about the past.


Deathly Hallows spoilers. I don't own Snape or any Harry Potter characters. (a good thing, too: "Okay, Snape – it's your turn to rub my back while Charlie rubs my feet.")

He wasn't much for emotional self-indulgence – never had been, not when the predominant emotions available to him were painful as a result of his environs. But sometimes, if he managed not to think about it too hard, if he managed to avoid contempt for himself and the absolute (slightly arrogant?) conviction that his actions were purely because he was too jaded to change course now, he would experience a tiny shimmer of longing.

On those occasions he would wait until it was midnight, staring at the faded green canopy above him (not for him the fancy bed dressings the other professors sported in their quarters – he had no predilection for decadence) and then rise at the gentle urging of the bewitched clock Dumbledore had provided all the professors upon their hiring. Unfortunately for Snape, he'd been hired at a point when Dumbledore, though sympathetic, hadn't really been fond of him yet (Snape preferred this explanation to the idea that Dumbledore really was the prankish old nitwit that he put on to be) – so his clock was slightly less accomodating to Snape's lifestyle than the other professors' clocks to theirs.

"It's midnight, Severus," the clock murmured wheezily. "You asked me to get you up at midnight."

"Thank you," Snape said shortly, only half-listening. He took his wand from his nightstand and hesitated. Maybe he was being a fool to go tonight. Wasn't it always foolish, though? Hadn't it always conflicted with every rational impulse he'd ever had? One more visit wasn't going to make him any more of a pathetic –

"Se-e-everus," the clock whispered. "Are you sure you're up? You haven't fallen back asleep, have you?"

Merlin's guts. "_Muffliato_," Snape snapped, throwing off his bedclothes and rising from the bed to hunt for his over-robe. It was cold in the corridors in mid-November; Flitwick's tropical upbringing had prevented him from knowing that much about climate charms, and Dumbledore probably thought a nighttime draft added to the atmosphere of the castle.

Spells only stuck to Dumbledore's clock for a few seconds at a time. "That wasn't necessary, Severus," the clock said reproachfully. The redundant sundial on the top of the grandfather clock slouched a little, as if crestfallen. "You were the one who asked – "

"You have provided the service I requested," Snape said irritably, pulling on the robe and shoving his wand into his pocket. "I assure you I can handle it from here."

"Where are you going this late at night?" the clock wheedled, adding a few seconds later, knowingly, "Are you going to visit – "

"That will be all," Snape said sharply. "One half-hour before dawn, remember." He started to head out, but foul memories of the clock's passive-aggressive revenge gave him pause. He wasn't keen to awaken to the clock's bellowed yawps of "_IT'S ONE HALF-HOUR TO SUNRISE, PROFESSOR – TIME TO WAKE UP_", as he had the last time that he and the clock had been left on bad terms – Minerva, whose apartments were next-door to his, was an absolute harpy in the morning when she didn't get as much sleep as she liked. Dumbledore's serious-faced, twinkly-eyed advice had been: "Do remember, Severus, that we all want a bit of flattery now and again."

"You are doing," Snape said, teeth gritted, "an excellent job."

The hourglass inside the brass sundial spun a little with glee, but the clock's voice was still slightly sniffy as it said, "Well, you know, I _am _looking out for what's best for you."

"Of course," Snape said stiffly. "Pleasant dreams."

He turned on his heel before the clock began to break down and go on about how good it was to be appreciated. Filch always gave him hell under his breath about having to clean up the puddle of tears under the clock whenever they leaked into the Charms classroom.

He stormed down the corridor as if to outrun his own angry embarrassment at this private act of self-consolation; eventually, though, as always, embarrassment faded into a kind of guilty anxiousness. How long had it been since the last time he broke down? A month and a half, maybe. What a long time to have gone without seeing her.

His legimency prickled at the sensation of a bitter, grouchy presence in the vicinity – Filch was nearby. He had formulated a dozen excuses to be awake and abroad at night and just as many techniques to deter Filch's questioning if confronted, but tonight he simply didn't want to deal with it – he shifted course abruptly and ducked behind a tapestry of St. Mungo slaying the Vampires of Gaul and through the passage that would take him directly to the chamber.

Odd that it should be this passage – the one passage he'd ever caught James Potter and Sirius Black sneaking into, the one time he'd ever managed to get them in trouble. It had been second year. Things had only ever gotten worse from there.

The dank stone staircase led to a tiny circular room with a crackling fireplace surmounted by a picture of three matrons sitting in a solar embroidering cloaks. They were all slumped over in their high-backed chairs, fast asleep, their needlework continuing steadily in their laps.

Snape cleared his throat; all three jumped. "They'll be done by morning," the middle one said a little breathily, jolted out of sleep; her left-hand companion snorted, caught mid-snore, and her right-hand companion rubbed her eyes and yawned. The middle one finally caught sight of who'd awoken her and smiled a little slyly. "Back again, Professor?"

"If you would just freeze the fire," Snape said, stifling his impatience, "please – milady." He didn't want another battle of "say please – no, say it nice" with her – the flames couldn't been charmed into pleasant warmth, and the potions that worked to guard the Sorceror's Stone had no effect on this much older fire spell.

"Since you asked so politely," she said sweetly, and the flames flickered and died on the logs that were never consumed. Gingerly Snape stepped over them and found himself in the corridor near the library; he walked briskly (no running – he'd used to run, but then his furious shame had led him to some modicum of restraint) and came upon the room, its innocently locked door, the suit of armor that stood next to it. He tapped the doorknob with his wand and muttered "_Alohomora_" and the door swung open, and there was the empty classroom, and then in the corner, the Mirror of Erised.

His heart leapt into his throat; he shut the door behind him, dropped his over-robe to the floor so that he wore only his day robes. They looked the most like his old school robes, even though as a professor he'd managed a much less shabby wardrobe than what he'd had to have during his youth. Before he acknowledged the last internal cries of protest at the stupidity, at the shame, against the pain that would come later, the hangover to tonight's gluttony, he strode to the Mirror and grasped its by its silvery frame and gazed into the glass, his knuckles sallow with the pressure of his fingers.

She draped her arms around his shoulders from behind him, and rested her delicate chin next to his face. He wished, as he always did, that he could feel her red bangs against his face; that his reflection should be so lucky. "Hi, Sev," she murmured.

In him, far away from everything he had constructed for himself during the dark years of development, he had a spring of things to say to her – tender things, loving things, beautiful poetry. But he couldn't stand to see himself say them. He could only gaze at her, unable to shed his scowl despite the gentle smile playing on her lips.

It wasn't his heart's desire to see her reaction to his sweet nothings, anyway – he didn't want a Lily that was madly in love with him, that was a Lily who had never existed. He wanted Lily exactly as she'd been – because that had been perfect.

He needed a few minutes of regarding her before all of the humiliation had been compartmentalized; he watched her gentle, patient face, saw his throat working in the mirror, saw his brows knitting closer together. When his legs had stopped trembling, many minutes later, he cleared his throat and said brusquely: "Your son was in his first Quidditch match today."

Lily hugged him tighter, pressing her cheek against his, watching his eyes in the mirror earnestly as if she was looking out the other side at him. "You _saved _him. I knew you would. Oh, Severus."

"You're notably silent on the subject of his near miss with death," Snape said dryly. A little sourly he reflected that perhaps that was his own fault – to have Lily focus more on him than on her half-James son was very appealing.

But his desire-vision was not some construct of the Lily-that-could-have-been, it was the real Lily, whose death had been because of her love for her son. She looked solemn and the slightest bit reproving as she replied, "I was hoping _you_ could tell me more about that, actually. That kind of Dark Magic is really your area of – "

"You live in my mind," Snape said, sneering a little. "You know my theory as to who cast the jinx."

Lily's forehead creased. "Your Dark Mark, though."

Snape rubbed his forearm absently. "Professor Dumbledore's theory that the Dark Lord will rise again is missing the very important component of _how_ he will accomplish his resurrection," he said. "It could be that in his weakened state, he doesn't care to summon his followers."

"If he's got enough strength to jinx a Nimbus broom – "

"I didn't say it made sense," Snape said quickly. Lily Evans was the only person on the planet with whom he felt comfortable being defensive. "I proposed a theory, nothing more."

Lily sighed gustily. "I _was_ worried," she confessed in a low voice. "At first. But I see who he's got around him – he's got professors like you and Dumbledore to protect him, he's got friends – "

"Horrible little midges," Snape remarked. "Weasley's youngest boy, every bit as annoying as he was – and the girl, his little – "

" – Mudblood friend?" Lily said coolly.

Snape felt color rising in his face, but he went on, "Bloody know-it-all. She's like you, if you'd been about half again as desperate to be liked by teachers."

Lily grinned a little, and Snape breathed an inward sigh of relief. "I thought she was charming."

"She set me on fire," Snape said insistently. "And I can't go to Dumbledore about it, because no one would believe that a prattling little saint like Granger would ever do anything wrong – "

"See? She went against her deepest fears," Lily said. "For Harry. He's got friends with backbone and he's surrounded by people who love him – if I ever wanted a setting for him to grow up in…"

Lily trailed off, and Snape knew from the sudden misting of her eyes that Lily very well could imagine a better situation for Harry to have grown up in.

"He's the belle of the ball," Snape grumbled. "Star of the Gryffindor Quidditch team and well-liked for it, like someone else I could name – beloved of everyone he meets. Perfectly insufferable."

But it had worked, because Lily's mouth only worked once more before her grin returned, and Snape knew she had been reassured. "You mustn't treat him like a miniature James," she instructed. "People aren't what they look like. For instance, it's obvious that you're not a horrible snobby prat." She tweaked his reflection's nose.

But Lily's teasing, which was usually bearable because it meant that she really was his friend, was agonizing now for some reason, and the bitter bile that clambered up through his throat manifested in his strangled yell of: "Of course he's not a miniature James. He's got all the worst of James, that scraggly hair and the stupid glasses and the cocky little attitude, but you can't – " He was breathing hard with the effort of honesty. " – you can't look at him without seeing – "

And, as usual, he was unable to tell her what she already knew, and he looked at the parts in question – her lovely green eyes – and swallowed back everything else he was going to say as she looked at him sadly. He stared furiously at the floor and felt her gaze burn into his forehead.

She didn't say anything to him for a while, which was just as well, since he was sure he couldn't speak and maintain composure; finally she patted him on the shoulder, a little awkwardly, and murmured, "For what it's worth, Sev, it would have been lovely if things had been left differently."

He resisted the urge to demand: _If James Potter had been trampled by hippogriffs in his fourth year? If you'd decided to forgive me and give me another chance? _He said stiffly, "Lovely. Yes."

Lily hesitated, then went on, even more quietly, "I knew you'd save him. Even when you went off with You-Know-Who, I always knew, in my heart…well." She detatched herself from him, uncomfortable, stood beside him and sighed. "I'm glad that you're going to be near him."

He saw his face twitch, and Lily took his hand and stood up on her tiptoes to kiss his reflection on the cheek. If he could even convince himself that he felt it – "Thank you for saving his life," she whispered.

He whirled away from the Mirror and left, feeling stupidly as if it were rude to walk out on something that was only just an echo of a wish spelled onto a pretty piece of furniture. He'd gotten all the way to the door before he heard the deep, creaky voice say: "The Mirror of Erised never speaks for me."

Snape skidded to a halt; Albus Dumbledore emerged from the shadowy corner of the classroom. There was no way for him to even care about maintaining any kind of image of stability in front of Dumbledore, who had seen him at his worst, so he merely said, aggravated, "I wouldn't have thought you'd be willing to stoop as low as this."

"Do you thinking I was spying on you, Severus?" Dumbledore said quietly. "Do you really think that you've cornered the market on heartache over the past?"

A hot, uncomfortable patch of shame in his chest, and he considered explaining, or trying somehow to downplay what had happened, or even, maybe, trying to commiserate – Dumbledore's quiet compassion was insidious. Really, though, nothing could be gained by any further discussion. He put his hand on the doorknob.

"I spoke up," Dumbledore added, "purely out of academic interest. The Mirror of Erised was not designed for complex interaction."

Snape wondered distantly if his secret fear of some sort of insanity, some weird hallucination of Lily had any merit – but he merely said, coldly, "It's a mystery, sir. Good evening."

"It's possible," Dumbledore went on as if not hearing him, "that if someone's deepest desire is to see someone with whom they were very closely acquainted, the vision of one's deepest desire is somewhat more – corporeal, I suppose."

"A fascinating theory," Snape said frigidly.

"Especially," Dumbledore added, "if the feelings between the two people were…intense."

He couldn't restrain himself any longer: "Are you suggesting," Snape spat, "that one can communicate with the dead through a looking-glass?" The sardonic anger with which he spoke burned his chest but somehow, wildly, he hoped –

"No," Dumbledore said softly. "I am suggesting that love still exists long after we do."

Snape wanted to rebut that – wanted to draw his wand – but he didn't, because as usual the heights of fury and despair always reached their crest and then fizzled away, anti-climactic, leaving a long-dull grief in their wake…as if a delicate hand had been put on his shoulder. He felt his shoulders droop.

"It's late, Severus," Dumbledore said gently. "You really ought to get back to bed before Kronos flies into a passion."

Snape wondered just how well Dumbledore had been aware of the clock's quirks before he'd given it to him. With a perfunctory "Good evening, professor" he strode out of the room and shut the door, leaving Dumbledore alone with whatever phantoms he had to face.

It was manipulative, he knew that – Dumbledore was many things, most of them good, but he was also cunning when he needed to be. He needed Snape's continued allegiance, and for that he needed Snape to remember why he had agreed to cooperate in the first place.

But manipulative though it was…

He stood for a few minutes outside the room, one hand pressed against the cool brick and the other barely grazing his cheek, and then he shook it off as he always did and stalked back towards the faculty's apartments.


End file.
